


The Great Unknown Known

by CiderSky



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: & more stories, Alphabet Soup Challenge, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Team as Family, War is hell, Wardaddy has an accident, World War II, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2556167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiderSky/pseuds/CiderSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still, the man is not what he’d been hoping for in a gunner.  He’s got soft edges and a Bible tucked in his belt – neither makes for a good killer, and he’s already wondering how long this one will last.</p>
<p>He points the man towards the fresh from factory Sherman and tells him to settle in.</p>
<p>Or,</p>
<p>A collection of 'alphabet-soup' vignettes following Wardaddy and Bible’s relationship, with a very healthy dose of Grady, Gordo, Norman and ‘Red’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Antilogy

**Author's Note:**

> Because there will just never be enough of these two and the team.

**antilogy:** _a contradiction in terms or ideas._

* * *

 

The first time they meet he shakes the man’s hand and asks him how long he’d been in the seminary before he’d been hauled off to war. The man’s brows lift in surprise just before his lips lift in a smile.

He doesn’t mean it as a compliment or something friendly. It was obvious, that’s all. The man’s hair is combed neatly, would have some length if mussed – he’d avoided the undercut or cropping common to soldiers – and his mustache is trimmed in a style common to those in the priesthood. It isn’t just that, though. The man is dressed neatly – which is saying something when in fatigues – and he stands mindfully, an almost gentle confidence setting his spine in a straight line.

“Six months.” Southern, Don decides; his accent is like molasses, catching in places a Northerner’s own tongue would find uncomfortable. “God willing I’ll be able to return soon.”

He looks the man up and down and to his credit he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it.

“Don Collier, Staff Sargent.”

“Boyd Swan, Technician Fifth Grade.” The man follows his lead, revealing his rank and Don can at least be grateful that the man has been through tank school. He’d been hearing about other tank commanders that had been unlucky enough to get saddled with desk jockeys and under aged runaways.

Still, the man is not what he’d been hoping for in a gunner. He’s got soft edges and a Bible tucked in his belt – neither makes for a good killer, and he’s already wondering how long this one will last.

He points the man towards the fresh from factory Sherman and tells him to settle in.

* * *

It’s just the two of them for a few days as they wait on the other three members of their soon to be team. The man spends a lot of time hunched over his Bible, reading, and gets to talking with the base pastor.

He also finds him, on occasion, at the field hospital, standing by bedsides and sending men home with words of prayer. Don knows the Book well enough, thinks about it on a rare occasion, but he’s pretty sure he’d punch the man if he tried that on him.

* * *

“Heard you got one of them seminary types.” Miles, another tank commander, one with a lot more dirt behind his ears, says as he marks up a map, sliding it towards him.

There’s a difference between a seminary man and a religious man. The former tended to die, quickly, and due to his ideals. The latter tended to die just like the rest of them but before that day he always seemed a little more broken than the rest; fracturing spiritualism was an ugly thing.

“You heard correct.” The man huffs as though he has a problem with it.

“Don’t know why they put those boys on the front lines; better off behind a desk, or the pulpit.” The man mutters as he pulls out another map, brow furrowing in confusion before realizing its the wrong one.

“He a pacifist?” Don chuckles because it’s ridiculous; he’s never heard of a self-proclaimed pacifist making it to the frontline. The man doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t mention that.” He answers when the man glances up at him.

“Well, good luck. Had one of them once.” He marks the map with three red ‘x’s, folds up the map and pushes it into his hands.

“Word of advice, son. Don’t get attached.”

* * *

They work together on the tank and get situated, running through checklists and debugging the comms.; the man sings, sometimes, though it’s more humming and muttering to himself.

“ – and thy shall abide – “ he murmurs as he cleans out grease from a sprocket – the newer tanks are filthy with the stuff – and then abandons the song to point out a missing bolt.

Don learns that sure enough the man knows the tank, has in fact been to tank school and can run through the commands good as any, but something about him seems out of place. He thinks about his conversation with Miles whenever the man speaks. He’s half psalms and ‘yes, sir’s; from the little he’d seen of this war and for the overwhelming amount he’d heard, the God-fearing either lost their religion or their lives.

He doesn’t want either for the man, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to bring that into his tank.

* * *

The other three arrive and Don begins to feel a bit more hopeful.

First there is Trini Garcia; he tells him to call him Gordo, a nickname he’s had and preferred since childhood. The man’s voice always has an edge of humor, his speech often interspersed with Spanish, and he’s wearing a cross. Gordo doesn’t say anything about it though and that’s good because he doesn’t think having two Boyd Swans would work.

Hank Redding, a quiet, tall cattle rancher arrives with him; he’s from Montana, he says, from a town no one has heard of and apparently he and Gordo had been in tank school together. Beyond that he doesn’t say much, but he writes, he writes a lot; Gordo tells him that they’re all letters to his girl back home. He likes the man; he’s quiet, calm and doesn’t require much.

And finally, there is Grady Travis, his loader; he is exactly what he expects of a man in that position. He’s built like a bulldog and is a man of simple tastes; he likes women and drinking and picks fights when he’s spent time doing either. Him and Boyd go together like oil and water and between the two of them, Don feels a headache coming on.

* * *

The man doesn’t fit right; its confirmed when he and Grady get into verbal spats and in the uncertain way the man sits when they get talking about their latest conquests and girls back home, about drunken nights in basic and cultural misadventures in the local bazaar.

Don likes the man fine, has traded pleasant enough words with him, and that’s the problem. Grady has already told him to fuck off and Hank has fixed him with an unimpressed stare more than once, and hell, Gordo has gotten involved in a tussle or two, but Boyd … he can’t help but think he belongs back at that field hospital or hell, back in a seminary in Canada or Mexico. He’s not saying the man is a coward, not saying that he’d run from conscription, but he seems like the kind to avoid fighting and killing.

Putting him behind that gun just don’t make a lot of sense.

* * *

Regardless, he puts the man behind the gun and they roll out for the first time, at the back of the pack.

“Swan, gun front –“ he says into the comm., his fingers hitting the wrong button, broadcasting the message to the platoon. The General laughs and calls him green; he presses the right one and repeats himself.

Sure enough, as they complete the hard right turn, the gun returns to the front and the man’s voice crackles through. “Roger,” he says, his tone serious. It’s not the same tone the man saved for scriptures or the dying; it’s something new.

He’s a professional, Don thinks; it’s a step up from his previous assessment but still, it doesn’t mean much.

* * *

They pass through desert for two days before seeing any action. They’re at the back, still, and it happens quickly. Something glances off the back of the tank’s turret and it rocks the Sherman’s metal frame.

They’ve run right into an ambush – a small one, and no doubt an inadequate one – and had the enemy gunner been aiming a little more closely they would be cooking.

Two tanks reveal themselves, from behind some bullshit sand dune – they’d all been preoccupied looking at the burnt husks of the lost ground patrol – and then there’s gunfire and a grenade or two.

“Redding …” He stumbles over the other man’s name because the side of the tank gets hammered with a spray of bullets, but the turret is turning towards the mess and it snaps him out of it,

“Redding, Garcia, bring her round, hard left – “ The tank’s body follows its turret and they’re moving towards the gunfire.

The tank in front of them outranks them by a week in service and Don watches as the fresh commander’s head snaps back, his limp body falling back into his vehicle. He had spoken to the man but twice, knew he’d seen a week of combat and that this was all that could be of his career.

The sand, in some areas, is already bright red and their own tank tramples a body – its only by the tan uniform and black arm band that he knows its the enemy. They’re lined up now with an enemy tank and its by sheer luck that their next shot goes completely wild, flying well above his head.

“Boyd –“ He is forced to duck down a bit as machine gun spray, bright red tracers and all, come calling up the tanks front.

“On one – “ He hears the gunner yell into his comm.; Grady knocks into his knees as he loads the gun and he looks down at the Browning’s returning fire. His team is performing and he’s here forgetting names.

The whole tank shakes as the main gun discharges; the round finds its mark in the tracks on the tank and he’s pretty damn sure they’ve managed to detrack it. Not the preferred outcome but good enough. Within moments another tank has managed to destroy the tank they’ve demobilized and all that’s left are a few ground troops.

It’s easy work for their platoon and though the battle was short – could hardly be called that – his hands are shaking and he’s sweating under the beating sun. He feels ill, even as the cold sweat leaves him.

They’re all silent, wallowing in their baptism by fire, when Travis gets to shouting and fuck, Don knows what its about- there ain’t no running from it, not in these close quarters and if his adrenaline wasn’t running s violently through his system, he’d probably be a little embarrassed over it.

“What the hell, Sargent –“ Grady Travis howls and the stench hits them, “Aw, no, man – what’s it like up top? That bad?”

The man’s laughing and Gordo groans, “puta madre …”, as he pops open his hatch and moves the seat up into driving position. Hank copies him with a sort of chuckle, though its hardly audible.

“Damn, I’ve heard of a pants-wetting experience, but shit –“

“Leave him be, Grady –“ The gunner warns, his voice hard as he lights a cigarette, paying no attention to what had just happened.

Hank and Gordo get her going again and they get back into formation on his orders; except for occasional snickering from Grady they make their way to the next checkpoint in silence.

His team performed and he crumbled. He wasn’t a betting man but had he been, he wouldn’t have put his money on himself being the odd man out.

* * *

Amongst the lessons he’s learned today – and hell, if he weren’t a little humbled by it – the most important might be regarding his initial assessment of his gunner.

The man is crouched besides their tank - still unnamed, as virgin as it is – digging out sand from the tracks and checking the dings, making sure nothing is out of sorts. He can hear Travis working inside, oiling the loading mechanism and sorting out odds and ends, wrench clanking mutely from within. Boyd is humming over the sound and doesn’t seem bothered when Gordo pops out of the hatch and flings a bucket of spent shells down the side, a couple catching him as they fall to the ground.

“Swan –“ He calls out and the man glances back before straightening; it almost looks like at attention but even new tank crews know how little that matters out here.

“Boyd, sir.”

“Boyd” He repeats the man’s name and gives him a nod, his chin jutting out a bit as he said it. “You did a good job today.”

“Thank you, sir.” He dips his head in acknowledgment and waits.

“Don.” He says because he feels like he should return the sentiment, especially seeing that the man would be sticking around. After that, Don realizes he doesn’t have much more to say; he knows that a small amount of guilt is what brought him here, though the man is none the wiser.

Except he is.

“I’m here because I answered His call.” He says just before Don makes to turn away and join the other tank commanders for a debrief.

“What’s that?” Don eyes him, watches as Boyd sticks the spade into the ground.

“I know I seem out of place, have had more’n one man tell me so.” Don’s lip twitches slightly; he isn’t going to deny it, though he hadn’t realized he’d been obvious about it.

“But this is the path I’m meant to walk.” After the man’s performance first day out, he doesn’t doubt it. And though he doesn’t know it yet, he’d never come to doubt it.

“I can see that.” That seems to appease the man and he pulls a cigarette from his chest pocket, pulling one for himself, sticking it hastily between his lips, before offering Don the pack.

Boyd lights the cigarette, offers Don the same, and grabs the shovel again. There’s something tense there, in the way he moves, though Don doesn’t know what it is, not yet.

He leaves the man to it but gives him a final word.

“Glad to have you on board, Boyd.”

And he is.


	2. Bombardment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time they misplaced Boyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your wonderful support, both for this story and In Arms - I can't tell you how much it means to me. Comments are certainly writer fuel and though i'm a bit slower than the other lovely prolific writers here, I will keep writing!
> 
> Please enjoy!

Bombardment: _1) a continuous attack with bombs, shells, or other missiles. a 2) continuous flow of questions, criticisms, or information._

* * *

 Their five-tank convoy rolls to a stop as the sun dips below the endless horizon. It’s dangerous to move at night; sound and light travels across land this flat with incredible ease and the best option is to choose a spot and stay there. They park a quarter of a mile apart; weren’t no greater invitation to get a whole lot of men killed then to put everyone in the same damn place.

Luck is on their side and the night is quiet; above them the sky is alight with stars in a way they have never see back home. Though beautiful, the eternal vastness of the desert makes for a good chill and it’s a damn cold night. The wind is also whipping up every once in a while and every burst brings sand into the tank into his jacket, into his hair – it is his least favorite thing about this land.

Despite the relative calm Don does his due diligence because he’s learned rather quickly that letting your guard down is what got you killed.

He scans the empty dark with a set of binoculars, only able to make out the slight rise of sand dunes and the shapes of the company’s tanks. He spots what he is pretty sure is some kind of wild canine scampering across the sand.

Other than that it is still; no enemy in sight.

Just as he is about to lower his binoculars he catches something out of the corner of his eye; a small red dot of light. His veins are suddenly flooded with adrenaline and he’s a second away from calling his boys back to their stations.

He swivels around and looks through the tight vision of the binoculars and curses. Anxiety is replaced by anger.

“Goddamnit –“ Collier spits and slams the binoculars down against the top of Fury’s turret basket, picking up the comm., “Hastings one of your boys got a damn cigarette lit –“

There’s a short burst of static in response; Hastings’ tech hadn’t gotten their inter-tank comm. back online. The thing was well fried and they’d probably have to just manage without it until they checked in with Alpha Company. That’s what the binoculars and extensive set of hand signals they had learned in tank school were for.

Though, now it is darker than hell and hand signals would be about as good as trying to get the other commander’s attention by whispering.

He thinks on it for a moment, scans the horizon once again and calls down into the tank.

“Boyd –“ The man is down below, a small pocket light in one hand and the Book in the other; he hears him shift and then a moment later he’s up top, looking out at the vast dark nothing before giving him a questioning glance.

“Good evening.” Don says in joking formality. “You up for a little walk?”

Boyd leans bag against the secondary hatch frame, hands jammed in his pocket – the tank is the same temperature as the outside but the wind brings a new chill to one’s bones – and gives a short nod.

“Nice night for a walk. Where’m I headed?” Don could feel his lip quirk in a small smile; it had only been two months and some but the man had proven the sort of dedication and respect most superiors dreamed of. He weren’t likely to get distracted, always thought ahead, didn’t get into mindless scrapes … the man made a surprisingly good soldier.

He also entrusted this particular task to him because he knew the man didn’t get distracted. If he sent Gordo or Grady he knew he would likely lose them to a night of drinking and talking with Patriot’s young and eager crew. Red was a viable option, wasn’t likely to cross him and wander like a wayward dog, but he was in the middle of switching out the .30 caliber he’d overheated.

Sometimes the man got a little overzealous with the gun when it came to Nazis, or so Don was learning. He didn’t blame him one bit.

Don points off towards the dark and frowns.

“Patriot.” He watches as Boyd looks over towards the tank in question – he can just make out its outline, spots the red burning dot and then, as if out of thin air, a small fire appears in front of the neighboring tank.

It is set low, in a dug out hole in the sand, and Don’s sure the green idiots think they’re getting away with something. Where in the hell was Hastings? Damn if he weren’t grateful for the good crew he had.

“Jesus fucking Christ –“ Don lifts his hand in exasperation and then gives Boyd an almost sheepish look; Boyd waves him off, not at all bothered. Don was still learning about Boyd and was learning the man had a pretty high tolerance for their foul mouths. He had also learned the man could be just as bad as the rest of them; he had recently heard a true litany of ‘fucks’ coming from his gunner during a particularly tense gunfight. It had been a surprise for all of them.

“I got it. Give ‘em a talking to.” Boyd squints at the light and shakes his head.

"Boys need a firm hand, no nice preaching words." Don warns, his lip quirking up as he looks again through his binoculars.

“I'm savin' those for Grady. Man needs 'em more than they do." 

"Amen." Don admits; its a long running thing, an almost joke, between the crew; the hopelessness of Grady, who'd on the first day of meeting Boyd claimed himself a right heathen.

"I’ll set ‘em straight. You'll see.”

“Yes you will. They’ll listen to you.” It’s true; Don found that people tended to listen to Boyd. He had a way about him; he was so genuine that he was often able to disarm some of the strongest personalities. It was hard to fight or be angry with the man.

Boyd huffs and climbs the rest of the way out of the hatch.

“Sure you don’t wanna send Grady?” The man jokes and Don thinks he can see the ghost of a smile;

“Hell, if I wanted to do that I could just throw a grenade their way; would get their attention just the same.” Bible chuckles and so does Don; they’re both imagining it. The man was explosive when he figured you were doing something dumb and needed a good lesson. Made for good entertainment at times.

“You got your side-arm?” Bible turns and looks at him, thoroughly unimpressed. He half expects him to roll his eyes, but Boyd doesn’t do that, ever. Instead, he opens one flap of his jacket, revealing the weapon.

“Yes, sir.” He says it in a way that sounds innocuous but Don knows better by now; it’s as close to sarcasm as he gets, his tone holding a hint of exasperation.

“Make it a milk run.” Don says in after thought, as if the man needed reminding, and waches as Boyd he climbs off the tank, boots making a soft thud as they found purchase in the cracked ground. “Want you back in fifteen.”

Don nods and lets the man go, finally.

“Roger that. Fifteen.” Boyd says with a half salute and sets off; Don lifts his binoculars and watches the whole way, ready to cover the man should anything take them by surprise.

* * *

Boyd can feel Don’s eyes on him as he walks and he’s glad for it; even though it’s been a relatively short time, he trusts his team – especially the Sargent - with his life. War makes or breaks your bonds very quickly and he’s never so quickly trusted someone like he does the tank commander.

It’s why he has no problem with taking a short quarter mile hike to a neighboring tank in what is technically enemy territory. He knows Don will watch every step of the way, that Don’s protection meant something.

It only takes him a short few minutes to cross the way and he makes a point to be loud, allowing his footfalls to scrape up dirt; he whistles a bit to make his position and intentions less threatning.

Still, as he makes his way into the small ring of light, even as he calls out ‘Patriot’, one of the men, the one with his back to him jumps, and whips around, fumbling for his pistol.

“Hey, careful now. There’s been enough friendly fire out here.” Boyd warns, hopes Don didn’t see that because he was sure to rip this kid a new one tomorrow and have strong words with the tank commander.

“Corporal Swan?”

“Not sure if you are aware but we’re in enemy territory.”

“Yeah, we’re plenty aware.” The man, their gunner, Boyd remembers, says; he doesn’t seem to be making the connection and isn’t too pleased with his sudden appearance and the fact that its clear Boyd is there to reprimand them.

“Okay. Then you are also aware that the land here is pretty flat.” The men stare back at him, look back at Fury, wondering just what he is doing here; Boyd figures they must think he is the worst idle-chit-chatter in the army.

There’s a metallic rattle a Boyd looks over at the largest of the men, their loader, holding an ammo tin over the fire.

“What’s your point, corporal?” Boyd is a little amazed but Don always said their was no limit to stupidity.

“The fire.” He says it and it comes out as if he can’t believe their ignorance, which, well, he can’t. The kid with the pistol furrows his brow; he’s got to be just of age, if that.

“We can see it bright as day from a quarter mile. You think the enemy will be able to see it, too?” The men pale, the gunner glancing back at Patriot before cursing and yelling at the man across from him, the one who had tried – if he could even go that far - to shoot him, to put it out.

The kid tries to stomp it out while Jacobs grabs at a cup of coffee and throws it towards the struggling embers.

“Fuck.” The other gunner – Jacobs, Boyd thinks – swears.

“Where’s your commander?” Boyd asks and all three men glance nervously back at the tank parked a mere five feet from them; its unlikely anyone inside could hear them, not with their low murmuring, but Boyd’s surprised all the same.

“Buttoned up, going over maps with Hendrix.” Jacobs looks at him in a way that almost seemed challenging; he knows they’ve fucked up and know they’ve been caught.

There’s a long silence and they’re waiting for him to do something.

“Oh, don’t worry. It isn’t me you gotta worry about; I’m sure Sargaent Collier will stop by in the morning.” Jacobs says ‘fuck’, again, cranes his neck around him and tries to pick out their tank in the dark.

“Seriously –“ The youngest looking says, sounding worried.

“Listen, Corporal, thanks for stoppin’ by –“ The loader starts; he hadn’t seemed at all perturbed by their error and sounded bored, unimpressed. “ – but the fires out now, so –“

Boyd stares at him and the man falters; Boyd knew that his calm demeanor tended to make people uncomfortable, tended to disarm them, especially the one’s that had a lot of fight and angry words in them. This man seemed to be that type, had probably been expecting him to climb up that Sherman and bang on the hatch.

It’s what Don or Grady would have done, Gordo and Red, too, most likely.

Instead, he stands there and fixes them with a look of utter disappointment. He found men responded to that better than anger.

The gunner opens his mouth, stops and then tries again. He smiles.

“As far as I see it, no harm no foul –“

“Hmm.” Boyd hums and is about to answer that particularly stupid statement because he’s pretty sure the man was, in all his glorious indirectness, trying to get him to keep Don from telling on them. It is embarrassing, really.

It’s also enough to make him a little angry because thinking like that got people killed and he had, in his short career, spent enough time praying for the dead. They didn’t need idiocy killing them just as good as Nazis.

Yes, he’s about to say something, is about enlighten them, but he immediately forgets it all.

He forgets because, suddenly, not so far off, the air begins to hum. 

* * *

 Don watches from afar, shakes his head and vows to give Hastings a serious and thorough talking to when one of his men tries to pull a pistol on his gunner. He knows the man had likely made his approach obvious and it sets a pin of anger in him to see one of Hastings’ men act so purely out of reaction.

“Hey, Top!” It’s Gordo, his voice muffled having traveled all the way from the driver’s seat; unlike other crews they tended to stay battened down when crossing through territories. They hadn’t liked it at first but they’d all gotten used to it and had taken to it, trusted it more than open air; Don knows a particularly sudden and brutal ambush, one they’d been forced to retreat from, had, in a way, helped enforce the habit.

“Yeah.” Don calls down, briefly looking away from Patriot, from his gunner.

“Foods up and it don’t taste like shit this time.” He can smell it and it actually does smell good; they’d been going on Saltines for while, because they were easy, and this would be a welcome change, good or otherwise.

“Hey, why don’t you eat this, you s – “ Red’s voice came and there was the sound of horseplay – loud thunking sounds, Grady’s disgruntled protests, swearing – it was never ending and Don had no doubt in his mind that these men were even tighter than brothers could be.

“Knock it off –“ Don calls down and hell, if he didn’t sometimes feel like he was their father.

He glances through his binoculars again, can see Boyd’s outline against the fire; he’s gesturing towards it and in a flurry of panicked movement it goes out. Good.

He bends down into the tank, checking on the rest of his team; they’ve made themselves confortable enough, though Red’s gun is still only partially together and Gordo’s got a good and greased rag shoved into one of the control levers.

“Where the hell’s Boyd?” Grady peers up at him as he pours some of the soup, or whatever it is, into a tin cup and squeezes him into the spot near the engine. Don is ever amazed at Grady’s ability to somehow make himself fit in Fury’s smaller areas.

“Giving Patriot a little hell.” Don smiles as they turn to him in surprise; Boyd didn’t give anyone hell and they all can’t imagine it.

Grady barks out a throaty laugh – “I’d like to see that one” – while Red shakes his head, army issued utensil digging into the ammo tin.

“Uh-uh, Boyd? Probably gonna accidentally save them. I don’t think the man is capable of giving anyone hell.”

“”What’s he over there for?” Gordo asks through a mouthful of food.

“Hastings ain’t mindin’ the children,” he says with small disbelief in his tone, “they started a fire. Can see them miles off in this land.”

Red whistles and Gordo chokes out a ‘es verdad?’, to which Don gives him a warning look; Grady chuckles, calls them fucking stupid.

“Man, I’d smack those idiots upside the head – the hell’r they thinking?” Grady shakes his head, laughing in that way that was unique to him, as he tipped his cup back, drank the soup directly from the cup.

“And that’s why I didn’t send you, Grady.” Don leans against Fury’s frame, not yet ready to eat; he’d wait for the gunner to return. “Situation called for some finesse.”

“Finesse? Those boys don’t need finesse, they need an ass whoopin’ – “ They all laugh, agree because Hasting’s had some interesting characters with him, had been assigned a fairly green and diverse team.

“Yeah? You gonna, you –“ Gordo starts but trails off; he hears it a fraction of a second before the rest of them.

The sound is akin to a swarm of bees; Don knows immediately what is coming; he hasn’t forgotten that sound, couldn’t.

It’s the sound of German 87 Stukas.

Dive-bombers.

“Fuck.” Don bites out and nearly hurtles himself back up through the hatch; he grabs at his binoculars and tries to see through the dark. He can see the dying embers of the fire, can just vaguely make out the shape of Patriot and the men standing around her – though they’re not just standing around, they are frantically filing back into the tank, he thinks. He doesn’t see Boyd, can’t pick him out in the dark; he scans the space between the two tanks, doesn’t think he’s on his way back and fuck … what if he is?

Don runs a hand over his mouth; the sound is getting close and he knows he has to button up. Stukas fly low, are fast, have fantastic maneuverability – the only deficit to the aircraft was that they ran through fuel quickly. They wouldn’t manage any more than three or four flyovers.

“Fuck –“ he curses himself more than anything, more than the situation, because he might have just killed his fucking gunner. He doesn’t pray often but he does right then, tells God that if he gets Boyd back he’ll be a little more devout and won’t kill Hastings.

“Gordo, Red – “ Don feels sick, absolutely fucking sick, “start her up, now!”

“What the – what about Boyd?” Gordo shouts up, his voice high pitched and colored in horror.

“We ain’t leavin’ him out there – “Grady gestures from inside the tank, pointing at the tank’s wall and then at the gunner’s seat, “and what if we need to gun one of them fuckers down?”

The tank rumbles to life and he can hear Red cursing a storm from inside.

“He’s with Patriot. We’ll regroup and get him back.” He says feeling horrendously unsure of whether that will actually happen; this is how platoons got split up. It happened all the time and sometimes it took days to get back together, assuming anyone made it through.

“What if –“ Grady spits back, all fire; the man was never afraid to make his feelings known.

“We will get him back!” Don shouts at Grady and tells him to get the fuck in position, tells him to load a round and take up Boyd’s seat. They can all perform in any position, if needed, though they were masters of their designated spot. Grady, though trained on the position, has never actually done it.

The air burns with hesitation and it makes Don’s job all the harder.

“Do your damn jobs.” Don pulls at the hatch, setting the example, just as the Stukas make their first pass; the tank pitches forward even as three loud thunks echo against her hull. Gattling bursts.

Don grabs at the comm. and calls out to the other tanks.

“Collier outbound, we have Sutkas – bearing northwest; follow my lead.” Two of the other four tanks answer and Patriot isn’t one of them.

The night sky lights up, red and tracers and bombs land around them, shaking the ground and turning the sand to glass. It ricochets off their tank and the world is just light and noise.

“Who has eyes on Patriot and Honey?” Don manages just before the tank takes a very hard right, tossing him into Grady and nearly making him drop the mic.

“Honey – “ the commander from Babs, Blum, pauses and Don knows its no good.

“Honey is down.” A direct hit, most likely; it only took one well aimed missile or one incredible poorly timed maneuver; truth was, around 80% of the time, a Sherman would catch fire with a direct hit. Don had learned that in tank school and never forgot it.

They plug forward with no word from Patriot; he tries to catch sight of it, of any, of the tanks though the periscope and hatch. He doesn’t see a damn thing. They roll over sand dunes, try to stay on their northwest bearing, and lose track of where they are – everything is just bush and sand dune.

It ends up being a running game. He doesn’t ask Grady to even attempt shooting that big ol’ 75 mm Boyd usually sits behind, and no one touches a trigger. They simply run for it and it feels a lot like he’s abandoning his gunner.

He has to take several deep breaths as they get further from the noise.

* * *

 

Dawn comes and they’re still moving, albeit at a true crawl. If a tank could limp …

The bearing and brief coordinates he’d given to the other tanks are for Alpha Company’s position; that’s where they had been heading, though they had been asked to take a few days to pick off the remaining stragglers. This territory, though technically of the enemy variety, was supposed to have been clean. The last bombardment had been weeks ago in Tubruk. The Allied Forces had gone to great efforts to destroy enemy air capabilities; clearly, it hadn’t been enough.

Don feels a simmering anger in his gut; there is no way of knowing if Patriot’s fire is what alerted the air force, and there never would be, but Don has his suspicions. There was a reason they had been so quick to put it out.

“Stop here, Gordo.” It’s the first thing that has been said in hours. With the light they can regroup. Don rubs at his eyes; they are all exhausted, had been up through the night, had suffered through several close calls and had consequently, in their brilliant maneuvers, separated themselves from all but one tank.

“Hell-and-Back, we’re calling for a halt and regroup.” Don clears his throat; it’s horrendously dry.

“Roger.” Is all the other commander says; he’s just as exhausted.

Don slams the mic. back into its carriage. Grady is eyeing him and the sick feeling that had taken him the moment he had order their flight only increased. He pops open the hatch, throwing it upwards with unnecessary force.

“File out. Check for damage. Fix what you can quickly. Don’t want any bullshit.” Don is angry, they’re all angry – they’ve lost half a platoon on an a-to-b and have misplaced their gunner; he knows he’s being hard on them but he has to do something with what is welling up in him.

It’s been just over two months and he’s misplaced someone; how many commanders could say that? He had really warmed to the man and he would be hard pressed to forgive himself if Patriot never turned up, or, if it did and his gunner wasn’t with them.

He’s half way out the hatch, takes a breath, and glances downwards.

He couldn’t let his fuck up – or his anger – keep him from serving the men he still has, the men he’d kill for at any given moment.

“Make sure you eat something. Drink some water –“ Don swears he hears the clink of a bottle and nearly explodes.

“Water, Gordo, clean your goddamn ears out –“ He’s not even sure if that’s what he heard going on down below, but he wants them in top form, wants them to have their heads on right because they’re down a man and in combat it feels a lot like missing a limb.

And hell, he knows he’s being unreasonable because Grady doesn’t say anything to him as he pushes himself out of the gunner’s chair and leaves through the secondary hatch, jumps down to the sand and starts taking a piss.

“What the fuck, Top.” Gordo says and he can hear Red tell him to leave it be.

He’s out before he can field any more complaints.

* * *

 

Hell-and-Back’s crew saw Honey go up in flames right in the beginning. The entire crew had been outside of their tank, hadn’t a chance, and had been gunned down just before their tank was set aflame.

Hell-and-Back had had just enough luck and skill to make it out whole, but it had required their full attention and they had lost sight of the others, had followed Collier and hadn’t looked back.

“Got rocked pretty good.” Carter says as he looks over his shoulder at his crew; three of them are trying to peel up the assistant driver’s hatch. The damn thing had taken some damage and was sealed tightly shut, bent in an awkward angle. Don can hear a man inside trying to hammer the mess out.

His own crew is scattered around the tank and no ones communicating; Grady is twisting his wrench around what Don guesses to be the suspension bogie, and Red is finishing up with his .30 Cal, the one that had been over-heated and busted the day before. Gordo is digging shit out of the exhaust – fucking sand gets everywhere.

Carter scans Fury’s scattered crew, assessing the damage of their tank as any good commander would and raises a brow.

“Where’s your fifth? The –“ Carter asks as he takes a long drag from his cigarette – he doesn’t know any of his men by name, not really, but knows them solely by their position, “ – the gunner?”

“With Patriot’s crew.” Carter, to his credit, doesn’t ask why. He just nods, gives him a look as if to express his condolences over the matter while simultaneously expressing, ‘it’s better than dead.’

“And where the hell are they, huh?” Grady throws a wrench and Gordo swears, tells him to be fucking careful. Carter looks unimpressed but he’s a bit tight-laced, doesn’t appreciate outbursts of any kind, regardless of their origin. He’s strict, that’s what everyone knows about him.

Don bets he sure as hell ain’t fool enough to lose –literally lose, and he still cant fucking believe it - a crew member to a milk run.

* * *

Don and Carter look at a map and find they are on the right track, that if the others have their wits about them and any damn sense they will follow the route they were meant to.

“We’ll wait till dusk, get our repairs in, move at night this time. We’re close enough.” Carter says and Don stares down at the map. Carter sighs, though it’s not a thing of frustration.

“I know you want to wait for your gunner, but, we need to report in.” Carter mistakes his silence for hesitation.

“I know that.” Don does. He folds the map up and tucks it in his jacket.

“Hastings’ got a good crew and a decent head on his shoulders.” Carter offers; Don isn’t completely convinced, not after last night. “They’ll make it.”

“His boys started a fire.” Carter looks up at that and he knows his instincts aren’t wrong; Carter is thinking the same damn thing.

“Shit.” Carter hisses, dragging a hand across his face; his previous words about Hastings fall away into a meaningless void.

“Dusk.” Don confirms as he gazes out at that terrible desert.

* * *

 

Dusk comes and they roll out, their tracks leaving deep, angry scars in the parched earth. 

* * *

 

They meet with Alpha Company and there’s a brief moment of excitement when they spot, on their approach, a beat looking Sherman parked alongside a half-collapsed building.

“Hey –“ Grady taps him from his place next to him and points, just as Red shouts over the noise of the tank.

“Hey, Boss – that Patriot?” Red’s voice lilts upwards, hopeful and Don leans forward, signaling to Carter who was pulling up behind him. It was definitely a tank from their platoon.

“Looks like her!” Gordo says as he steers the a bit closer; the tank had taken some hell, is probably parked their for serious repairs, but nothing seems to have pierced it and there aren’t any signs of char.

A weathered, grey-haired man comes from around the other side and noticing Collier, gives a wave.

“Sargent –“ he calls out and Don recognizes him; it’s Bill Piworczyk, the assistant driver, from Babs., as they get closer, Don can make out the crude painting of a busty woman in a red dress on the front.

Don feels horrendous over it, but he feels a small thrill of disappoint; the sentiment resonates through the tank but Don doesn’t show it. None of them do, because it’s good to see Babs crew has made it out. They shouldn’t feel any damn thing other than relief.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes –“ The man says it earnestly, his Chicago accent thick; he’s one of those rare types that just drips genuine. He’s soft at heart, but regardless, makes a fine commander.

“Glad to see you boys; we weren’t sure who else had made it!” The man sobers suddenly, as though guilty over his excitement at seeing them, “We weren’t sure after Honey – “

“Same here. Good to see you, Bill. ” Don nods down at the man, gives him a small smile.

“Your boys whole?”

“O’Brien has some electrical burns and it’ll be a while before we get this damn oil outta everything.” The man’s uniform is slick with black grease; they’d undoubtedly taken some bad hits. The man is old enough to be the commander, smart enough, too, but has out right refused several attempts to get him promoted.

Bill confirms his suspicions when he tosses a hand up towards Babs and shakes his head.

“Don’t know if she’ll see another day; can’t believe we made it back. We pushed, Don, we really did. Hell, we’re the reason for half the electric shorts and fires.”

He says is in the voice of a man who knew he almost got got.

“You boys doing alright?” Don stares at him for a moment, well aware that he’s grinding his teeth – his back and neck are sore, too, and he realizes in that moment how tensely he’s been holding himself.

“One of ours is with Patriot.” Don briefly wonders with how many people he’s going to have to experience this shame and pain. He wouldn’t get demoted for it, wouldn’t lose his remaining crew, because things like this happened. But he knows its what he fucking deserves and he figures that experiencing this over and over is a fraction of the pain of sending one of his boys to his probable death.

“Oh, jeez – “ Bill looks down, brows furrowed in sympathy – sympathy Don doesn’t want or deserve - as he looks back up at him. Don doesn’t like the looks, suggests he knows something.

“I haven’t seem ‘em, Don.” He says right away because he knows what he was going to ask, knows he needs to know the answer regardless. To Don and his entire crew’s dismay, to Bill’s own, the man shakes his head.

“Not after the initial hit. Last we saw Patriot was after Honey. Saw them break away south west but after … we went north and then west, drove through the night.”

“South west?” Red questions, squinting at Bill against the harsh and ceaseless light of day.

“Can’t say why, only that they did.” Bills shakes his head looking sorry; they stay there, stalled in front of the man, for a moment.

There’s a long burst of gun fire from afar, but no now pays it any mind. It’s a constant reminder that even if they aren’t in battle, someone else always is.

Don imagines Patriot is a good example.

“Thanks for the information, Bill.”

The man gives them a half-hearted nod and points them to command.

* * *

 After another day, Red asks what they’re all wondering.

“They talk about a replacement?” The man looks upset, knows that Don would tell them when he knew, but by the way he looks down, briefly, he can tell that they can’t stand waiting.

They’re due back in the field in the next few days and a Sherman tank just didn’t run with four.

The day before his men had gotten well drunk and had talked about how missing didn’t mean dead, talked about odds and joked about divine protection. Now, with the hangover, they all remember what MIA means in the army and what the tanks that made it back look like, and aren’t feeling all that much like praising God.

“Yep. He’ll be in tomorrow with Easy.” Lots of men were being shipped in for Operation Torch, to replace those who had been lost and to push the campaign further.

Don had been given the papers and a sorry. He hadn’t even looked at them yet.

“Hell with him.” Gordo says, slurs, and Don guesses he’s still a little bit drunk.

“I’ll have none of that, Gordo.” Don points at him, fixing him with a serious gaze because he’s the commander and he’s not allowed to crumbles under the weight of his fuck ups.

“Boyd’s not with us anymore,” he doesn’t say dead because the idea still hurts, “but there’s still a war going on.”

And if he is dead … hell, he hadn’t even given the man a good death, a death with his men, behind the gun, with his team around him. If he were dead – and Don is still holding out for missing – then he’d died with another team, in another tank, with people who didn’t know him. In war that was a certain kind of lonely.

He thinks about saying something about continuing the fight in Boyd’s honor, but it feels wrong, feels slimy and he has a feeling, with the death stares he is currently receiving, that it would be unwelcome at this juncture.

He stares back at his men and their defeated forms; losing anyone was impossible, losing a piece of your crew was … and he’d really thought this crew would be it. Thought he’d be able to keep them together because they were the best, and they worked exceedingly well together. He realizes what a fool he is in that moment.

“We done?” Grady says, shifting his weight, no doubt ready to get back to forgetting their – and undoubtedly not their last - first painful loss.

“We are.” He says and it sounds like an awful way to end what they’d had as a team.

* * *

 

They’re loading up and waiting on their replacement gunner. He’s late and Don’s in a foul fucking mood.

“Sargent Collier?” Don turns away from his crew, fully expecting his new gunner, his mouth setting into a tight line; he doesn’t want to do this again.

He is genuinely surprised when he turns to see an officer; his crew notices as well and the conversation just drops off. He can hear someone hop off the tank and land in the mud, come up just behind him.

He doesn’t say anything because he’s pretty sure he knows what this is. Patriot’s been MIA for two days now and with Easy passing through, he’s got no doubt that they’d found the missing tank.

The man swallows, his throat bobbing, before he speaks again.

“Sir, I am here to confirm that a Corporal Boyd Swan was under your command for Operation Sweep?” The man says was and Don knows; he hears someone behind him swear and lash out at the tank, the silence filled only by the sound of a boot against metal.

“That’s right.” The man fumbles with a piece of paper and Don tilts his head; he is learning, quickly, to harbor some negative sentiments towards these field officers. No tact and cant remember a damn thing.

“Sir, we have word that Easy Company has located Sargent Hastings and his crew, along with Corporal Swan, who reported being separated from your crew during a bombardment –“

“Reported? Who?” Don cuts the man off because he isn’t sure if he’d heard that wrong.

“Sir?” The man looks up from his stupid, flimsy paper.

“Who reported that?” Red steps up, saddling next to him and gesturing wildly.

“Corporal Swan?” The fact that the man seems confused reveals the inexperience with field-war this man has; they’d been separated for days and he had approached the situation as if their missing man had told them he would just check back with them later.

“He’s alive then?” Don says, stepping forward and grabbing the paper from his hand. Gordo and Grady are suddenly next to him and the officer steps back, outnumbered.

“Y-yes, sir.” Don would never be able to explain what he’d felt in that moment; relief sure as hell doesn’t cover it and happy sounds more than lacking.

“Open with that next time, you stupid son’bitch.” Grady looks like he’s about to smack the man but he’s smiling, and Don, hell, he hasn’t yet seen anything like that from the man.

“C’mon vato, where is he? Shit!” Gordo kind of shouts because he’s been drinking since the bombardment.

“Easy Company drove ‘em into intake; tank couldn’t be salvaged but –“ They don’t let the man finish; they brush by him and head towards intake – Grady whooping and Gordo shouting nonsense - like they’ve been told the wars over.

* * *

 

They hear snatches on the way, hear that Patriot had been found ground out and de-tracked in a sand dune. That they’d waited in the desert for three days with little water and no food. That Easy Company had strolled by and offered them a lift, just like that.

They hear those things and can’t walk fast enough.

He’s sunburned and a little worse for wear, his lips are chapped and his eyes blood shot, he looks tired and he is covered head to toe in sand and small scrapes, but he’s alive. Currently he’s seated in a field tent on two stacked ammo crates, chugging a canteen of water. As they approach he dumps some on the back of his neck closing his eyes, the coolness no doubt soothing his reddened skin.

Grady can’t help himself as he pushes past them and even Don feels his face break into a wide grin.

“Boyd –“ The man looks up and Don can tell the situation had been just as stressful, just as nightmarish for him; his own face breaks into something built of overwhelming relief, “ – God sure _does_ love you, you lucky, stupid, asshole – “

Grady says it with a smile and Boyd’s eyes get all watery as he stands, takes in his crew, as the man comes at him, his finger wagging accusingly.

“We thought you was a dead man.” He says as he gives the man a God-honest hug, the kind brothers would give, and it’s a rough thing; he pounds the man on the back, even as he winces as it pulls at his sunburn.

“Thought the same of you, prayed you'd made it out –“ Boyd’s smile turns down for a moment, pained; Don has no doubt the man had probably prayed enough for the entire platoon in those few days.

Boyd looks like he might say more, but Gordo is suddenly on him, arm around his shoulder, putting the man in a near chokehold.

“Voy a matarte … oyes? Matarte …” As Gordo says it Red is pulling him off, patting him on the shoulder, doing the same to Boyd after he manages to pull the Mexican away.

“Don’t do that again. Don’s been …” Red gives him a grin as Boyd pats his arm and Boyd looks at the man in question; he huffs a relieved, desperate laugh.

“I believe I said fifteen minutes, Corporal.” Don feels like he can breathe for the first time in days as he lands a hand on his gunner’s shoulder.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Don grins because he’s missed the man; he missed his calm cadence and the way his expression fell so easily into something kinder and gentler than what the rest of them were capable of, “that’s the last time I go on a milk run for you.”

Don chuffs a laugh and puts a hand on the back of the man’s neck, giving him a brief squeeze; Boyd looks so relieved, his shoulders dropping their tension, and Don feels borderline giddy. It’s the most positive thing he’s felt since before the war.

“C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat. I suspect you’ve had a long couple of days.”

“Long doesn’t describe it, man.” Grady huffs, remembering their own solemn days passed in silent grief and restless anger.

“You’ll have to tell us about it. Later.” Red says, eyeing the man from his peripheral; they all want to know what the fuck ad happened but know the man needs an hour or two to collect himself.

“Yeah.” Boyd says, looking down, and Don can tell he’s still feeling overwhelmed; he wraps his arms round the man’s shoulder and leads him back to their tank, his crew whole again.

“Oh, and Boyd, remind me to find Hastings, later. Have to exchange some words with the man.” Boyd laughs something earnest and, as they pass the fresh recruits and newly arrived trucks, the flurry of pre-deployment, Don feels more than lucky.

“Roger that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. I'm sappy as shit. 
> 
> Comments are love.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all will continue to read and, hopefully, enjoy the journey. If you have any prompts for a specific letter, or a word prompt, feel free to leave it in a comment. Also, In Arms will be updated in the next day or so.
> 
> Fury fandom, you rock!


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